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A Novel
by Liz Moore
Book Reviewed by:
Carl
1961
It was seven in the evening already when the phone rang in the fire hall, jolting Carl Stoddard awake. He had fallen asleep on a cot after a long day in the sun. On ring two, he rose and blinked. By the third ring, he was in action, lifting the receiver with the same trepidation he always felt when answering. He disliked speaking in general; speaking into a telephone was worse.
"Carl Stoddard?" said a voice on the other end. This was Marcy Thibault, the local operator, whose years of experience had given her the uncanny ability to recognize voices.
"What's the bad news," said Carl—his standard response. A scripted line.
"I've got someone on the line for you from the Van Laar Preserve," said Marcy.
"Oh?" said Carl.
This was strange. Never in his life had Carl—a gardener at the Preserve—been contacted directly by his employers.
Maybe he'd left something there. Or maybe he'd done something wrong. Peter Van Laar was a man of strong opinions, and the landscaping was a special concern of his. Every year, the Van Laars threw a weeklong fling in July—the Blackfly Good‑by, they called it, in celebration of the seasonal change that saw the pest's departure from the area—and Mr. V wanted everything just so.
"How'd they find me at the hall?" asked Carl. His heartbeat was quickening. He was a tall, blond‑bearded, burly person, forty years old that summer, a football player in his youth—but he was timid, sensitive to changes in the weather and to the emotions of others, and he disliked conflict. Always had. Gardening was a vocation that suited him well.
"They didn't," said Marcy. "They don't know it's you there."
There were four of them that year in Shattuck Township's volunteer fire brigade. Aside from Carl, there was Dick Shattuck, the grocer; Bob Alcott, a history teacher at the central school nearby; and Bob Lewis, largely unemployed.
Together, a decade prior, they'd built the team from scratch, learning their trade from firefighting enterprises in neighboring towns, raising money for equipment at donation stands they set up at Christmastime and the Fourth of July. Once they got fire boots, they collected money in those.
They rented out an old garage and converted it to a fire hall with a bed and kitchen on‑site. They had Dick's wife Georgette, whose artistic talent annually gilded the grocery store's front windows, paint a sign.
It took them four years to get a proper vehicle—but by July of 1961, they had the whole operation up and running. A truck and hoses and, in town, four hydrants a stone's throw from Shattuck's only intersection with a stoplight. The volunteers were well trained. Each one of them, except Bob Lewis, was considered to have a positive attitude.
The night of July 10, 1961, it was no coincidence that Carl was on duty: he liked it at the fire hall. Signed up for night shifts as frequently as he could. It was the only place, aside from his car, where Carl ever felt truly alone. Here at the hall, he had nothing to do but read, or daydream, or sometimes fall asleep, and only very occasionally answer calls.
It took several seconds for Marcy Thibault to transfer him. And when a voice came through the wires, it wasn't a member of the staff, but Peter Van Laar himself—to whom Carl nodded each time they crossed paths at the Preserve, but to whom he had actually spoken maybe twice in his life. Van Laar was known by his employees and business associates as a stern, intolerant man, quieter than his wife but more vicious. He seemed to have no interest in conversation with anyone who worked for him, except at the highest levels; even to those at the top of the staff's hierarchy— groundskeeper, housekeeper—he spoke only briskly. He had a wolfish look about him, a leanness that signified hunger.
Excerpted from The God of the Woods by Liz Moore. Copyright © 2024 by Liz Moore. Excerpted by permission of Riverhead Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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